


Work in Progress

by kazvl



Series: Fire and Ice [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 02:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazvl/pseuds/kazvl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Relationships and work progresses</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work in Progress

WORK IN PROGRESS

MAY 2009

Mycroft arrived home to find Lestrade swearing as he watched the test match. As he turned to switch off the TV, Mycroft saw that the left side of Gregory's face was scraped and sore looking, as if his cheek had impacted with a brick wall.

"Hello. Thank God, I can stop watching the cricket. Too masochistic." Lestrade got up to kiss him.

"What happened?" demanded Mycroft, beside him in seconds. "How were you injured?"

"I'm not. Oh, this." Lestrade gestured briefly to his face. "An arrest went sour. Donovan and I were at the house for something unconnected at another flat and got caught up in it. The poor sod was off his meds. Took four of us to get him in the car. It's lucky he wasn't a big bloke really. Have you eaten?"

"Have you had these seen to?" Mycroft delicately touched an uninjured place on Lestrade's cheek with the tip of his index finger.

"I dabbed on some Germoline. It's nothing. The worst part was listening to Sally whinge about laddering her tights. Now, food. I waited in case you got back at a reasonable hour."

Left with little option, Mycroft allowed the subject to drop. But later that evening, while Lestrade was soaking in the bath, listening to the cricket on Radio 5 Live because he was a glutton for punishment, Mycroft upped his security to Level Three.

 

Mycroft was dutifully reading an extremely dull report the following morning when Lestrade rang.

"This isn't a social call," said Lestrade, sounding harried. "Don't come back to the flat tonight. In fact, it's probably best if we don't see one another for a while."

Mycroft froze for a full five seconds.

"You want me to move out?" he asked with care.

"Don't be a dick. Of course I don't. At least, I do. But only because I'm being followed and until I find out by who - or should that be whom, I never know - I don't want you anywhere near me."

Mycroft grimaced. "Ah."

"'Ah?' That's the sound of a guilty man if ever I heard one." Lestrade sounded as if he was caught between amusement, resignation and irritation.

"May I explain tonight?"

"Not a chance. You'll just distract me and by the time we've had sex I'll be too mellow to care."

"You could have been seriously injured yesterday," said Mycroft, his voice sounding tight and unfamiliar to his own ears.

"You're over-reacting," said Lestrade gently. "It was a one-off. A fluke. I'm not at the sharp end any more."

"Gregory - "

"No. This is non-negotiable. It has to be or I'm reduced to some... It has to be," repeated Lestrade. "Stop the surveillance and keep them off. Quite apart from the fact that they could impede my ability to do my job, I'll be the laughing stock when it gets out. And it will get out. Whatever Sherlock might think, my people aren't idiots. We're trained to observe what's going on, whether we're at a crime scene or not. Maybe not as fast as the Holmes brothers but we plods get there in the end." The sharp note in Lestrade's voice was its own warning. "This is a personal matter, not your work, so do I have your word that you'll stop having me followed?"

A theatrical sigh gusted down the phone. "I'll remove the agents tailing you."

Lestrade grinned to himself when he heard the sulky note in Mycroft's voice, but he was looking thoughtful when he rang off, having also noted Mycroft's evasion.

 

"You wanted to see me, sir?" 

"Indeed I do," said Mycroft, eyeing Anthea with a chilly lack of enthusiasm. "Can you explain how it is that Detective Inspector Lestrade spotted he was being followed within two hours of leaving home?"

"He is observant, isn't he?" said Anthea brightly.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed slightly. "You may have forgotten that I'm the one who had to explain it to him. Who were you using?"

"The new MI5 intake. Some of the others you thought would be capable of guarding you," she added pointedly.

"If you want to find yourself being posted to the Falkland Islands, you're going the right way about it. You can undertake a little street work of your own."

Anthea's smile slipped a little. "You want me to follow DI Lestrade?"

"What would be the point of that? I want you to take their training in hand. Something's going on in Europe - not just London. I don't know what it is, or who's behind it, but we need to be ready for whatever it might be."

"In my copious spare time, no doubt," she said tartly.

Mycroft's mouth quirked. "I knew you would get the point eventually."

"Remind me why I like working for you?"

His eyebrows rose. "Sentiment won't save you. I don't have a better nature to appeal to."

Anthea gave a philosophical shrug. "It was worth a try. Enjoy your evening with DI Lestrade, sir."

She heard his soft huff of amusement as she closed the door behind her.

 

After a day of increasingly tedious meetings where there was much talking to no point whatsoever, Mycroft headed home with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, uncertain of the reception he could expect.

Lestrade took one look at Mycroft's guarded expression and shook his head. "You're shameless. But you can drop the hangdog look, I forgive you. What are you using to follow me now, CCTV?"

"Yes," admitted Mycroft with resignation, braced for a difficult discussion. Not for the first time, Gregory surprised him.

"I suppose that might come in handy one day. Okay, subject dropped. Because if I could keep an eye on you I would."

Mycroft blinked in surprise. "You don't need to concern yourself about me, I have security."

"Not helping," Lestrade pointed out.

"No. I've been told I have a tendency to be over-protective," Mycroft admitted.

"I bet Sherlock didn't phrase it so politely. You wouldn't be doing the job you do if you didn't have a protective streak a mile wide. Lucky for the UK, really."

Mycroft looked up from studying his shoes. "But not for you."

"No," said Lestrade, refusing to weaken. He was never quite sure when Mycroft was playing him. "Can we forget this and go out for a drink and a meal, even if we don't do more than split a glass of wine between us."

"An excellent suggestion. Do you have somewhere in mind?"

"There's this gastro-pub about half a mile away. Two star Michelin. I booked a table a couple of weeks ago and hoped for the best. And - " Resignation on his face, Lestrade fished out his phone.

"Donovan," he told Mycroft a few minutes later. "Another body part's showed up on the same bit of waste ground as two others. She can deal with the forensics."

"You don't want to go out there?"

Lestrade looked torn.

"It's fine," Mycroft assured him.

"An hour, tops," Lestrade promised. "Plus journey time," he thought to add.

"Don't wake me when you come in," said Mycroft, undeceived.

 

"You're early," noted Mycroft with pleasure, when Lestrade returned home just after nine.

"I thought of you here, probably pining, and decided to delegate the boring bits. We've still got time to have that meal if you want," said Lestrade, slumping down beside him on the sofa.

His head back, eyes half-closed, in need of a shave and with his hair sticking up in several directions at once, he looked...

"I'd rather go to bed," said Mycroft huskily.

"Silver-tongue. OK, you talked me into it," said Lestrade, instantly coming back to life, his eyes sparkling. "Only I need a shower first. The waste ground is a haven for foxes and my trousers reek of fox pee where we had to wade through the waist-high vegetation. Our SOCO suits were no protection."

"I wondered what the smell was." Mycroft was already busy with catches and buttons.

"Now you know why I don't wear anything decent to work," said Lestrade, before he was sidetracked by Mycroft's neck, exposed because of his partially open shirt. The bonus of warm weather was more of off-duty Mycroft on display.

"Why does your hair smell of fox?" asked Mycroft, his nose wrinkling.

"Oh, God, does it? Sorry. Definitely time for a shower," said Lestrade, pushing himself to his feet, and nearly falling over as his unfastened trousers slid down to his ankles. He ambled towards the bathroom, shedding clothes as he went, switched on the shower and turned to find Mycroft, wearing very little by this time, behind him.

"I thought I could wash your back," Mycroft explained, tossing his last sock in the general direction of the bath, one hand already stroking Lestrade.

"That's not my back," Lestrade pointed out with a grin. 

Once under the water he propped his folded arms against the tiled wall, water streaming over his head and shoulders to run down his backside and legs. 

"Oh, that feels good," he mumbled as soapy hands slid over his skin. "You're not in a hurry, are you?"

"No," said Mycroft with truth, revelling in the play of muscles twitching under the slick, soapy skin, the flex of Gregory's backside and his slow, sleepy smile as his cock rose to greet him.

 

"Well, that was efficient of us," said Lestrade, as he dried Mycroft with a certain attention to detail. "We won't need to change the sheets now."

"My first concern," Mycroft assured him, just before he was soundly kissed.

"I'm starving. Cheese on toast?" suggested Lestrade.

"Perfect. Ah. You want me to make it," Mycroft recognised.

Lestrade gave another of his sleepy grins, usually a sign that he was wide awake. "I love the way even your thought processes slow down after sex." He patted Mycroft's now dry backside and held out his silk dressing gown for him, before shrugging into the crimson one Mycroft had bought him, whatever he had claimed at the time.

"It wasn't until you got me this that I realised I'm tired of monochrome. And I don't own any clothes that approach smart," Lestrade said, as he followed Mycroft into the kitchen and began to check the fridge for things to eat

"You're not thinking of changing on my account?"

"Anchovies! Just the thing to go on top. Oh, and there's some of Annie's apple crumble left." Lestrade fished out a spoon and began to eat from the serving dish.

Mycroft shook his head at him but deigned to accept a spoonful before he return to mixing mustard.

"I know I don't need to change," said Lestrade. "Nor do you. Yet you have. You used to change, or stay in full work gear. Now you walk round in braces and shirt sleeves because you know I love the way the braces show off your arse and shoulders. I think I need your help. It's time I got some more clothes. Smart ones, I mean. For when I'm not working. Only I don't know what to get. I usually just buy - "

"White shirts, black underwear and socks and navy or black everything else," said Mycroft promptly.

"You noticed? What am I saying, of course you noticed." Lestrade helped himself to a slice of toast, buttered it and began to munch. 

Resigned, Mycroft cut more bread.

"And if you could bring yourself to lower your sights and look at some stuff for me for work, too. Though there's no point wasting good shoes or trousers on the crap I sometimes have to walk through to get to a crime scene."

"Wellingtons in the boot of the car might mitigate the problem," suggested Mycroft, feeding Lestrade the last knob of cheese before he could steal it.

"Why don't you just admit you want to see me in rubber."

Mycroft thought about it. "No," he said with finality. "Why are you so insistent on changing your style when we go out?"

"Because I look like the poor relation. I'd like to do you justice."

"Now you're being ridiculous. You in those aged jeans of yours would do anyone proud. What's this really about?"

Lestrade gestured in a vague kind of way. "You always look so...right. Whereas whatever I do, I end up looking like an unmade bed."

"Better since Len began to do your ironing," Mycroft pointed out, keeping his face straight.

Lestrade gave a snort of amusement. "Not helping. You know what I mean."

"I know that even when wearing cheap high street store trousers that are the wrong shade for an ill-fitting jacket, you never look less than professional. I'm interested in clothes - some would say too interested - you're interested in being comfortable and clean." Mycroft lost his train of thought when he became distracted by the wrinkles at the corner of the warm brown eyes, as if a smile was waiting to blossom. Unlike most people he met, Gregory's smiles were genuine.

"The cheese is catching!" Lestrade yelped, rescuing it.

"How much may I spend on this new wardrobe of yours?" asked Mycroft, as they began to eat.

"I can spare a thousand."

"Excellent. I should be able to find a decent suit for that."

Lestrade gave him a patient look. "For everything. So no cheating."

Mycroft decided not to ask for a definition in case he wouldn't be able to navigate a way around the reply. 

oOo

The last Bank Holiday weekend in May was a quiet time for Mycroft and Lestrade. While they were both working on Friday, for once they were able to enjoy a leisurely breakfast together. Because of the glorious weather, Lestrade opened the French doors onto what passed for the garden.

"I don't know why the sight of you in shirtsleeves and braces has this affect on me. Do we have time?" asked Lestrade optimistically.

"No," said Mycroft, in what he trusted was a firm tone because the temptation was acute. "Let's hope I don't have the same affect on the prime minister. What about you?" He held up the cafetiere.

"No, Gordon Brown doesn't fancy me. 

"I've finally managed to organise an evening with some of Sid's police mates from back in the day, in the hope they'll remember something about the Roman case that's not on the corrupted file. I'm using the cover that I'm lecturing secret squirrels in interrogation techniques and that I want a case nasty enough to shock even them. Is that okay with you?"

"Ah, the spirit of inter-departmental co-operation," mused Mycroft. "It's fine."

"Which means I'm going to be late home and probably pissed as a newt. While it's been a good few years, the last time I met up with this lot, they drank me under the table. The old-timers don't know the meaning of the word moderation. You might want to think about staying at your place."

His fork full of scrambled egg poised halfway to his mouth, Mycroft subjected Lestrade to one of his disconcertingly direct stares. "Why?"

"Because I'll be - "

" - pissed a newt. You said. What now?" Mycroft added with resignation when he saw Lestrade's grin.

"I just get a kick out of hearing you say it. On your head be it. "

"Just so long as it's not splattered on my shoes." Mycroft gave his eggs a pensive look and abandoned the rest of his breakfast. He glanced first at his pocket watch, then at Lestrade.

"I wish," sighed Lestrade. "I've got an autopsy at 8.30."

"A mood killer if ever I heard one," Mycroft conceded.

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrows when Lestrade arrived home just before ten that evening. "What happened to the alcoholic binge you had planned?"

"I've just seen my future and I can't say I'm looking forward to it," said Lestrade with gloom.

"Why?" Mycroft closed his laptop, got up and went over to give him a kiss, which Lestrade returned in an absent-minded fashion.

"The youngest there was seventy three. Between the pills, the stories about their ailments - or worse - their operations..."

"My poor Gregory. You don't even taste of alcohol."

"It didn't seem fair to have a pint when none of them could because of their medication. But it was an evening well spent. Reg Hoskins might be falling apart physically but mentally he's sharp enough to cut himself. He remembered more than I dared hope about the case. He was a PC back in 1964. He and his partner discovered the scene and worked on it for the duration. Some stuff from the corrupted file we saw back on the island was true. The Roman family were killed in September. But there were two more murders - that of the eldest son, a boy of sixteen called Roger. He died in the bathroom. Throat was cut from behind, gutted after he was dead. The other victim was the baby Sebastian, who was found dead in his cot. No obvious sign of injury Suspected smothering but the post mortem was inconclusive. Our suspect, Colin, was fourteen. The girl, Viola was twelve. 

"Get Moneypenny to pull out all the physical evidence. There should be stuff belonging to all the kids in there because of the blood. According to Reg, the neighbours claimed that only Colin and Sebastian had the same father."

"A thirteen year gap," noted Mycroft. "Did they have a suspect back then?"

"Colin. Reg said he was a queer boy - in the old sense of the word - and that he wouldn't have left any kid of his with him. There again, according to local gossip the parents shouldn't have been allowed to look after a goldfish, let alone children. They never found any concrete evidence against Colin, who clammed up under questioning like an old pro. Interesting that Colin's been using the name Sebastian," added Lestrade.

"The glib answer would be that he murdered his two brothers out of sibling jealousy but has been suffering from guilt about the baby ever since. I wonder why he left the sister alive?" mused Mycroft.

"She wasn't home. Unlike Colin, she was at school that day. Reg remembered because she spent most of it in the Sickbay. Turned out Viola was three months pregnant. She went into care and vanished into the system."

"An unfortunate start for anyone," said Mycroft. "Anthea and David can see if they can trace her. Although given record keeping back then..."

"Exactly," said Lestrade. "If it wasn't for Reg we wouldn't know any of this. Why did Colin Roman go to all the trouble of doctoring the file? Guilt?"

"Unless Colin assumed that anyone who knew the intimate details of the case would be dead by now. With the file altered so drastically there would be nothing to link him to such a notorious crime - except for his own insistence of using variations of the family name. I doubt if we'll ever discover what was the trigger for his violence. Or, indeed, in which order the deaths occurred."

"Why hide his ID? It would only matter if he had any kind of a public profile. And he doesn't. I would have noticed," said Lestrade, a grim set to his mouth. "I've been keeping an eye out for Col Armon for a long time."

"Perhaps he's working for someone with a high public profile."

"I can see David and Anthea are going to be in for a busy time checking just that. Reg said he's still got his old police notebooks up in the loft. As they might contain something he's forgotten I said I'd go round tomorrow to bring them down."

"Then might I suggest lunch and an afternoon on the river afterwards? I'll drive you to his place in the cab and wait for you."

"Perfect," said Lestrade.

And so it would have been if Mycroft hadn't recognised the expression on Lestrade's face the following morning when he emerged from the house, clutching a tower of filthy cardboard boxes to his chest. With an inward sigh, Mycroft waved a mental goodbye to their afternoon off. 

"Is that Reg's entire collection of notebooks?"

"Yep. His handwriting is even worse than yours. And like most of us, he had his own form of shorthand." Perched on the seat behind Mycroft, the glass divider between them open, Lestrade added, "You're not a bad driver."

"A comment which would be more gratifying if you didn't sound so surprised," pointed out Mycroft, sounding remarkably untroubled by the slight.

"It's just... I suppose I didn't expect you to enjoy it."

"I don't particularly. It's just a means to an end. I'm afraid the mystique of the machine rather passed me by."

"I've always fancied driving a London taxi," said Lestrade, his manner ultra casual.

"Really." His mouth quirking slightly, Mycroft ignored the less-than-subtle hint.

"Bastard," said Lestrade amiably. "Can I have a go?"

Mycroft was already turning into a quiet side street before he pulled over. "You may. Though it's really not that exciting."

Within seconds he found himself standing beside the cab, watching while Lestrade made himself comfortable, having to adjust the driving seat because of Mycroft's longer legs.

"Well, in you get," said Lestrade. "Is that one of yours on the motorbike?"

"Yes. And the white Fiat."

Lestrade glanced at his watch. "Are you still up for lunch, before we go on the river?"

"You don't want to work on the notebooks?"

"Reg told me the most important stuff. We both have the day off. I'm not about to waste any more of it."

"Excellent choice." Mycroft sat at an angle where he could enjoy Lestrade's look of glee as he drove the cab into central London.

oOo

JUNE 2009  
World events being what they were, the unofficial embodiment of the British Government was looking decidedly frayed around the edges by the end of the week.

Lestrade gave him a hug and a quick kiss, then stepped back to view him with a critical eye. "This looks like an Indian takeaway night. Go shower while I order. The usual?"

Mycroft nodded, still inwardly marvelling that they had a usual.

"But you got your own way in the end?" Lestrade noted.

"The result was satisfactory," Mycroft conceded.

"I bet it was," murmured Lestrade. He gave a faint, unseen smile as Mycroft paused to collect the tie he had just dropped on the arm of the sofa. 

 

Showered, changed and full of takeaway, the calorie content be damned, Mycroft lay stretched along the sofa, neatly accommodating Lestrade, who was stretched out at the other end, despite the fact they now had two perfectly comfortable sofas. Lestrade had his bare feet tucked under Mycroft's thighs, while he massaged one of Mycroft's long, bare feet with one hand as he tried to decipher the writing in the forty year old police notebooks Reg Hoskins had given him on the Roman case.

Busy catching up on some background reading for a series of meetings scheduled for next week, Mycroft listened to the increasingly weighty sighs coming from Lestrade and had a private bet with himself.

He was out by two and a half minutes.

"Mycroft, are you bribe-able?"

Mildly interested, because it wasn't a line of questioning he had anticipated, Mycroft glanced up over the top of his half-moon spectacles. "Professionally or privately?"

"Privately of course."

"Certainly." Mycroft set down the tablet with no sign of regret. "What do you have in mind?" His expression melted into silent amusement at the indignation on Lestrade's face.

"I was going to work up to it."

Mycroft gave him an affectionate look. "And now I've saved you the bother. If it concerns sex, you do realise that bribery won't be necessary?"

Lestrade nodded, his attention clearly elsewhere. "I know we agreed I would never ask you for a work-related favour but - No, don't look like that. It isn't as bad as it sounds. Would you consider putting in a request for copies of all the paper evidence in the homeless body parts cases? Only I want to work on them at home and while normally I'd just sneak the files out, there's a massive amount of paperwork. I thought I could use that wall," he gestured behind where they sat, "for all the photos. Though I'll have to rig up a sheet or something so your people can't see anything. I'm presuming you don't count as 'public' for this purpose?"

"I don't," Mycroft confirmed.

"Can - Will you? I promise I won't make a habit of this," Lestrade added earnestly.

"Relax. That much I can do." Mycroft reached for his phone. "What are the case numbers?"

Lestrade went to make tea while Mycroft issued instructions with the crisp efficiency that was his hallmark.

"My people have been instructed not to investigate. Len wouldn't dream of it," said Mycroft.

"What?" he added, when Lestrade stood staring down at him, a troubled expression in place.

"I feel as if I've taken advantage of our relationship."

Mycroft shrugged. "You're having no success with the case?"

Successfully diverted, Lestrade plumped down beside him and held out the dish of strawberries for them to share.

"None. Even Sherlock's stymied. Not that he'll admit as much. He just stalks off in a huff every time I mention the case."

Mycroft tried not to notice the distracting way Lestrade was eating a strawberry. "Would it help if I read the papers?"

"You haven't got the time," said Lestrade, but his hopeful expression betrayed him.

"I'm free this weekend."

"You can't possibly want to spend it reading these case files. For so much paperwork, there's relatively little information."

"Oh, I'm hoping for an hour or two off."

"While I ply you with sex in lieu of strong drink?"

"An excellent suggestion," said Mycroft with alacrity. "Feel free to start any time you like."

oOo

But even Mycroft was unable to offer any valuable insight in the case of the homeless body parts - the area of disposal was too vast and affected by the river and wildlife, obscuring any pattern, presuming there was one.

Because walking was the only form of exercise they could agree on, and because Lestrade had decided Mycroft needed to be out in the fresh air after so much time stuck in planes or meetings, they spent much of their free time showing each other their favourite parts of London. The only proviso was that the focus shouldn't be a tourist hotspot. A great deal of cheating went on, although Mycroft claimed that finding a way around a sloppily phrased rule was part of his job.

"What's your excuse?" he asked, amused.

"I wondered if I'd be able to get away with it," admitted Lestrade cheerfully.

"Shameless."

"Says the man who's been keeping his weakness for street markets quiet - no matter what tat they sell," added Lestrade, casting a disparaging glance around Camden Market.

"I thought you might enjoy fossicking for vinyl rarities," said Mycroft.

"Good save. Your security people aren't keen walkers, are they?"

"They've never shared my fondness for markets. Camden Passage Market in Islington is much more interesting. There's a book market on Thursdays."

"And the odds of us both managing to get a week day off..."

"I could probably manage a morning."

"I'll see what I can do," said Lestrade, because Mycroft was so clearly enjoying having someone to share his passion with.

Leaving the bustle of the market behind them they stopped for lunch a mile or so away.

Over coffee, Lestrade fished in the pocket of his jeans to produce a screw of Moroccan blue tissue paper. "I got you this yesterday," he said, looking self-conscious.

Mycroft's head rose, surprise on his face. "Why?" he said blankly.

"Does there have to be a reason? I saw it and thought you might like it. As you can see, I spent ages wrapping it." Lestrade was surprised by how nervous he felt. Mycroft wasn't the easiest person to buy presents for. "Well, undo it. I promise it's nothing embarrassing. Not that I think you even understand the concept."

Mycroft gave the faintest of grins at that.

He took his time unfolding the tissue paper to reveal a tiny, perfectly formed gold dragon. He stared at it for what seemed like forever to Lestrade.

"Gregory, this is exquisite," he said at last, seeming at a loss for words.

"It's real gold. It's a fob. To hang on your watch chain." Lestrade could hear himself babbling, grimaced and ran a hand back through his hair. "But you know that. Sorry."

"The workmanship is quite wonderful." There was more colour than usual on Mycroft's cheeks and he looked off-balance, as he wasn't sure how to react. "Thank you. Where did you find it?"

"Pure serendipity. I was sheltering from that downpour we had yesterday in the doorway of a jewellers and there it was, gleaming at me. It reminded me of you - as St. George, fighting dragons for us. Oh, sod it. I just hoped you'd like it," sighed Lestrade ruefully.

"I do. Very much. But any slaying I might do is strictly death-by-committee." Mycroft touched him briefly on the hand. "Thank you. I shall enjoy this every day."

Lestrade relaxed when he saw how many times Mycroft's attention returned to the dragon, making it obvious that he did like it. But it hurt that he seemed so surprised, as if he wasn't used to being the recipient.

There again, it was difficult to imagine Sherlock...

No, he refused to ruin the day by thinking about Sherlock.

Eventually Mycroft tucked the dragon away in an inner pocket of his cream linen jacket and by mutual accord they resumed their walkabout. 

It was early evening by the time they headed back to the flat, before the streets began to fill with evening revellers.

Lestrade stopped in his tracks as they were passing the small parade of shops. "Chemist!" He paused in the doorway. "You might want to stay here."

"Ashamed to be seen with me?"

"Apart from that. Do you really want your security detail to watch you choosing lubricant and condoms?"

"Why do we need - ? Oh. Yes." Clearly side-tracked, Mycroft's tongue flicked out in a highly distracting manner. "Good idea," he added, before he placed his hand in the small of Lestrade's back and eased him into the shop.

"It really won't bother you, will it," Lestrade recognised with resignation.

"Not at all. Would you rather wait outside?"

"Oh, you're just loving this, aren't you. Come in. The quicker we buy them, the quicker we can use them."

"You're aiming for speed then," said Mycroft.

"Will you behave."

"No, I don't believe I will. I'm feeling frivolous tonight."

"Excellent. Now, ribbed, flavoured..."

By the time they emerged from the chemist, Mycroft was shaking with silent laughter and Lestrade looked harried.

"I admire your optimism but feel you may have over-estimated the number we'll need in the next five years." Mycroft nodded to David, who had just arrived to replace Fatima for the night shift.

"Oh, be quiet. It was your fault I knocked the boxes off the shelf in the first place."

"Did you remember to buy lubricant, after your accident with the condoms?" asked Mycroft.

David nearly choked trying not to laugh at Lestrade's expression.

Lestrade divided his glare between the pair of them before stalking back into the chemist.

"No more bacon sandwiches for you," he told David, when he reappeared.

Mycroft maintained a prudent silence but wore the bland expression of a cat with a saucer full of milk under its belt.

Despite himself, Lestrade grinned. "You're such a bastard. I'm glad you're on our side. Let's go home." Rather than waiting for David to summon the car, he hailed a taxi.

"We're only a quarter of a mile from the flat," Mycroft pointed out, as David got in behind him.

"I'm in a hurry."

About to make the obvious reply, Mycroft noticed David trying to feign deafness and Gregory's look of chagrin and took pity on both of them by staying silent.

 

The flat was looking a lot less spacious these days, less because of any new furniture than because of the boxes containing the papers of the homeless body parts cases. And even when they were hidden from immediate view the wall of scene-of-crime photographs seemed to dominate the room. Pictures of decomposing body parts were not a good look but Lestrade hadn't given up hope of being able to spot something he'd missed.

"Quite apart from the nights when one of us ends up falling asleep on the sofa because of your work calls, we could do with an office," he mused, because it fidgeted him to have the neatly stacked boxes in the sitting room. 

He muttered to himself when the cover over the photographs fell down again. "I suppose we could partition off the far end of the room, but the study wouldn't have any natural light."

"And it would ruin the proportions of this room," Mycroft pointed out, as he unfastened his pale blue silk shirt and wandered into the bedroom.

"Hey, cheating. I was going to unwrap you," protested Lestrade, hurrying after him. His face disappeared as Mycroft drew up his faded crimson tee shirt, kissing him when he reappeared back into view. 

Lestrade was too preoccupied to notice the tee shirt fall to the floor.

"Do your worst," Mycroft invited. His eyes were bright with a mixture of amusement, lust and something else which stole Lestrade's breath away.

"Way to encourage the nervous lover," he joked.

"Gregory...?"

Lestrade shook his head, before tumbling them both onto the bed. His weight on his flat-palmed hands and his knees, he straddled his supine partner.

The scent and warmth of him filled Mycroft's world. Intoxicated, his hand travelled blindly over Lestrade's face. Lestrade nudged his palm, painting teasing stripes with his tongue before nipping the mound at the base of Mycroft's thumb and making the beautiful hand quiver in response.

"What would you like?" asked Lestrade, shivering when Mycroft's other hand curved around him, thumb teasing.

"You to fuck me," said Mycroft with deliberation. "Preferably before I die of old age."

Despite the vulnerability of his position, Lestrade just gave the wickedest of grins.

 

Spent, Lestrade lay on his back, a fatuous expression on his face as he stared up at the ceiling besides a seemingly boneless Mycroft, whose face was buried in the pillow, one outflung hand on Lestrade's still heaving rib cage.

As he slowly recovered his breath, the sweat cooling on his skin, Lestrade stroked the hair at the base of Mycroft's skull with the side of his thumb.

"You haven't fallen asleep, have you?" he asked eventually, his voice slurred with repletion.

"Mmn," mumbled Mycroft into the pillow, giving the smallest of wriggles.

"Mycroft?"

Sprawled across the mattress, Mycroft labouriously turned his head. "God help me, I'd forgotten that you're a talker. Just kill me now."

"I only wondered... Is your knee all right?"

Mycroft snorted, before he silently began to laugh. "I have no idea," he admitted.

"Good."

Lestrade rolled onto his side, kissed the nearest portion of Mycroft - his biceps - and ran his finger over the curve of Mycroft head before nuzzling the exposed hollow at the base of his skull. Mycroft wore his hair short at the back, in a style reminiscent of those seen in 1940s films. It gave the back of his neck an odd vulnerability that left Lestrade feeling soft and foolish and very possessive, which was disconcerting because he'd never thought of himself as that before.

He slowly browsed his way across Mycroft's back. His shoulders were dowsed with freckles, which petered out by his shoulder blades. Lestrade paused when he discovered a scar which he hadn't noticed before; white with age and faint, it slashed across the freckled skin from the top of Mycroft's collar bone to curve across one shoulder blade, as if someone had struck him once, very hard. 

The thought was unbearable. Lestrade's tucked an arm over him and held on tightly enough to elicit a faint grunt.

"What is it?" asked Mycroft in a different tone. A moment later he was sitting up, crossing those long legs which any super model would have envied.

Lestrade stared at him and suddenly it was simple. "Just... I love you," he said, the words escaping of their own volition. Not that he wanted to take them back, come what may.

Mycroft seemed to stop breathing for a moment, before he nodded, as if answering a silent question.

"And I love you," he said with certainty, which effectively silenced Lestrade.

 

To be continued in Part 7


End file.
